


Capitis Dolor

by shyday



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Medication, Migraine, Mycroft Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 01:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14149074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: She’d been quite a while in his employ before she learned to recognize the tiny signs. It had taken longer to understand that, by the time there were signs to notice, things were generally fast approaching the point of intolerable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it’s yet another migraine fic from me. Because Mycroft. This isn’t at all how I intended to step into this fandom, and – since we don’t really know each other yet – I feel compelled to note that any unfavorable opinions of the inhabitants of 221B are Anthea’s, not my own. Also that (though I’m sure it’s obvious) as this is merely frivolous fiction, no slights were intended against Turkey – the meat or the country – or any of the British officials chosen completely at random in this story. I’ve nothing against the Treasury or the RMP. Honest.
> 
> Lastly, I make no money, because they don’t belong to me. Hurt/Comfort Bingo fill for the prompt medication. I’m sorry I’m not British. No spoilers. Purely whump for whump’s sake.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Twenty two minutes past eleven. Anthea’s attention flicks between the email she’s composing and the closed door. Her fingers dance autonomously over the keyboard as she adds another line; backtracking, she corrects a typo. Five minutes more, and she’s going to have to start making calls. Today’s schedule isn’t much busier than average, but one meeting gone long could easily snowball into restructuring the entire afternoon.

 

The two morphs into a three, and the door to the inner office opens. Their visitor exits first, still half turned in conversation. “… in the sand,” he finishes exuberantly, like the punchline of a joke. She thinks his accent might be American.

 

Her boss follows him out. “Yes, well, you’ll have to be sure to let me know how that goes,” he says, with a polite chuckle that means about as much as the indecipherable smile on his face. “I expect to have information for you by the end of the week. You are still, I presume, at the same hotel?”

 

They pay no attention to her as they pass, and Anthea dutifully pretends to be interested in her computer screen. Typing a string of nonsense, she tries idly to decide if he looks American. She knows nothing about this meeting other than that it filled a space on the calendar, an addition last week with no explanation given. If Mycroft hadn’t told her it was because he didn’t need her to know; she’d entered the mysterious Major Aarons between a series of phone calls and lunch with no questions asked.

 

He looks too unkempt, in her opinion, to carry any kind of a title – not aided at all by the lack of any uniform, the blue jeans and rumpled suit jacket somehow lending weight to the impression of his Americanism – but, to be fair, most men look a bit unkempt when standing next to Mycroft Holmes. She continues with her artificial productivity, comparing the backs and profiles of the two through subtle glances over the top of her monitor.

 

Aarons asks for a restaurant recommendation; it’s her cue to start searching for available reservations. But her attention’s snagged by the uneven line of one of her boss’ pale blue shirt cuffs. A simple kink of caught fabric that would be nothing with anyone else, here a striking enough incongruity that it jangles for her notice. Abandoning her fake typing, she picks up her mobile. Easier to study them and do her job from this angle.

 

A sweeping glance as she resettles reveals no other glaring anomalies, and Anthea wonders if spending nearly every waking moment with Mycroft Holmes might not be prompting her to invent clues that aren’t there. He answers Aarons lightly and without her input, suggesting a restaurant well known for catering their menu to the tastes of tourists, particularly American ones. She’s been there a couple times with people from out of town; they’ve a few dishes she likes, but it isn’t the kind of place you frequent as a local. She wonders if Mycroft’s ever eaten there. She pictures him sitting stolidly between booths of squalling families against a backdrop of sports pennants and celebrity autographs. She wonders if he’s still scarred by the experience.

 

Her eyes bounce back to the cuff of that sleeve.

 

The Major lingers over his farewells, apparently under the mistaken assumption that he’s today’s only appointment. Anthea checks the time; no more than fifteen minutes before they need to be on their way to lunch. Mycroft looks to be a paragon of patience, thoroughly enjoying the last-second tale the man’s just now dredged up. She’s sure Aarons doesn’t notice the way that smile doesn’t reflect in his eyes. Or those miniscule creases of annoyance at their corners that took her almost a year to be able to pick out herself.

 

She’s distracted by an incoming email, hears Major Aarons finally taking his leave. A blissful silence seeps up from the carpet, down from the ceiling, as the sound of his voice goes with him. Mycroft exhales through his nose, a shivery sound clearly audible in the new quiet. Anthea looks up expectantly, waiting for instruction or comment.

 

The smile might’ve never existed; his jaw twitches, and he turns sharply on his heel to return to his office without a word. The door closes firmly behind him.

 

Not a slam, certainly, but definitely with more force than is normal or necessary. Her unrevealing expression is long-practiced and an incessant requirement of her job; even alone, she keeps her frown from her face. Standing, smoothing down her skirt, she uses her mobile to make sure there’s no lipstick on her teeth. Checks the time again on the way to his office. She wonders if the meeting had gone badly, if he’ll bring her in on it now to help gather this “information.” Opening another email, she knocks on his door.

 

There’s a distant sound from inside that she takes as an invitation to enter; typing a one-handed reply, she lets herself in. She’s confused when her eyes jump up from the screen to find an empty chair behind his desk. When, blinking around the room, she discovers that he’s not in the office at all. Her brain glitches embarrassingly for a moment as it tries to reconcile this with the knowledge that he _must_ be here. She’d seen him enter.

 

The lapse resolves itself as her eyes fall on the closed door to the private lavatory, when, a second later, she hears the muffled sounds of someone being sick. It’s an unhappy confirmation, and this time she doesn’t temper her frown.

 

She backs out of the office, pulling up the traffic report as she heads for the small kitchen to make tea. There’s a lorry accident snarling the M1, and she sends a quick text to Lord Westerfield’s aide to warn him that they’re stuck in the mess and therefore may be late arriving for lunch. Promises to keep him updated. Chewing on her bottom lip as the tea steeps, she reviews the rest of the day and debates moving at least a few things around.

 

Better to wait until after she speaks with Mycroft. Going by past experience, he’ll likely insist on working through the afternoon anyway.

 

He hadn’t looked ill earlier, and she doubts that it’s something he ate. If only because she doubts he’s actually eaten anything today. As per usual when she arrived this morning he’d already been both at his desk and mired in a call; he’s barely stepped out of his office, and she hasn’t brought him anything. It could, of course, be some illness that’s settled in abruptly.

 

But she’d wager next month’s salary that it’s another migraine.

 

Anthea imagines that she’s one of a very limited number of people who know about the headaches – there’s also his physician and probably Sherlock, perhaps his parents depending how long he’s been afflicted – but possibly the only person who has a sense of their frequency and severity. And even this is mostly guesswork, skilled as he is at masking the symptoms. She’d been quite a while in his employ before she learned to recognize the tiny signs. It had taken longer to understand that, by the time there were signs to notice, things were generally fast approaching the point of intolerable.

 

She picks up the cup and saucer and carries them and her mobile to her desk. Reads another email while she roots blindly through her handbag for the paracetamol. The pills look pathetically optimistic sitting there together on the white porcelain. Gathering it all up again she returns to the inner office, entering quietly when there’s no response to her featherlight knock. The other door remains closed, but the vacant room is now silent.   

 

Still studying the afternoon’s schedule, she walks around the desk to leave the cup by his chair. That face-to-face could probably be moved over to Friday; a couple of the calls could be shifted to tomorrow. Distracted by an unexpected reply to an inquiry sent weeks ago, she lingers as she skims over the answering message. She’s going to need to coordinate a call with Belize.

 

The toilet flushes, followed by a rush of running water, and Anthea starts for her own desk well aware that he’ll not appreciate her hovering. She’s only half way across the office when the door opens; there’s a sudden childish urge to dash for the exit as if she’s been caught intruding, spying. Her weight shifts awkwardly between her feet as she stops where she is.

 

Mycroft appears looking hunched and sallow, suit coat slung over an arm and a handkerchief dabbing at the back of his bent neck. She sees the half-second freeze as he realizes he’s not alone, a hiccup of a pause before he hurriedly straightens. “Yes. Well,” he sniffs uncomfortably, the cloth square vanishing into a trouser pocket. He makes a vague gesture for her to sit as he crosses the room; she glances down at her mobile so as not to have to watch his careful slow steps or the hand that fumbles slightly for the chair before he takes his own seat.

 

The vertigo might be the worst of it. The vertigo is what had given him away. They might’ve gone on forever tactfully ignoring what was happening, her sneaking the occasional paracetamol onto his desk but otherwise following his lead. She might’ve never grasped how bad things could get. He was a busy man with an incredibly stressful life; of course he had headaches. _She_ had headaches. She’d been fairly content to leave it at that until the day she’d found him on hands and knees in his office, too dizzy to get up off the floor. Coerced by the threat of emergency services, he’d conceded to give her a bit of insight.

 

She’d started thinking differently about things after that.   

 

She glances up from her inbox to see the thin smile Mycroft gives her as he slides the cup and saucer a little further away. He rests the back of his head against the chair and closes his eyes, and she notes the unfastened cuffs of his sleeves, the undone top button of his shirt and the fractionally loosened tie. She senses she’s likely the only person he’d allow to witness this nearly scandalous disarray.

 

His voice is a murmur, barely moving his pale lips. “If you’d be so good, my dear, to remind me of the rest of our day. I’m afraid I find myself inexcusably unfocused.”

 

“Sir, perhaps…” she begins, a breath from suggesting a cancellation of the entire schedule. But despite growing familiarity and steadily eroding walls, there still remain definite boundaries. She presses her lips together, doesn’t continue.

 

“Nonsense,” he says, as if she’d spoken aloud anyway. “A moment, and I shall be quite recovered.” Long fingers rise to massage a temple, a frown flickering across his drawn features. “And you’re about to tell me that we’re already meant to be on our way somewhere,” he sighs. It’s not a question.

 

“Lunch. With Lord Westerfield.” Her boss makes a sound in the back of his throat that might be a groan from anyone else. Anthea checks the traffic again. “However, as we are currently unavoidably trapped behind an accident on the M1, we do have a bit of time.”

 

He cracks open his eyes, gives her another pained smile. “An angel. Some days I fear I would truly be lost without you.” His slitted gaze falls to the cup, the steam drifting lazily up from the tea. “And the afternoon?” he asks, watching the dancing wisps with an unnatural slouching lethargy. 

 

She runs through it, certain he’s listening even if he gives no indication of such. He absently traces the edge of the saucer with his fingertips. She turns back to her mobile when she sees the faint tremor in his hand.

 

“We finally received word from Belize,” she tells him, disappointed when this doesn’t get more of a reaction. Maybe he’s not paying attention after all. “I thought I’d try to arrange something for tomorrow?”

 

“Mmm.” It’s neither illuminating nor instructive. Anthea waits for something more, but there’s nothing. She’s about to break the silence herself when Mycroft blinks his way out of his trance. “Forgive me, my dear. I suppose we really should be going. We can do this in the car.”

 

He uses both of the chair’s armrests to push himself to his feet, barely makes it to vertical before he wavers noticeably and any colour he may have regained seeps back out of his face. Bracing his weight with a fist on the desk blotter, his other hand comes up to cover his eyes. “Perhaps… a moment longer,” he mumbles through a shaky exhale. He sinks down into his chair again before Anthea can decide whether or not to rise from her own.

 

“Anything I can do, sir?” She’s pleased with how well she’s kept the helplessness from her voice.

 

The hand not furiously rubbing at his forehead shapes a dismissive flip of fingers before reforming itself into a clenched fist on the desk. Time stretches around them in the stillness as her eyes dart between him and the clock.  She ignores a text from Westerfield’s aide.

 

She knows there’s a prescription, a skinny plastic bottle that they both pretend does not exist. He’s confessed to her how much he loathes those pills, how disconcerting the dulled disorientation that they bring. It feels almost cruel to suggest it. “The medication…” she begins hesitantly. He lowers his hand just enough to squint at her over the top of it, and she tells herself she’s inventing the flash of betrayal she reads there. “This is what it’s for, after all,” she finishes lamely.

 

His shoulders rise and fall in a mindful breath before he drops his hand from his face and sits up. “No need,” Mycroft assures her, wearing a feeble smirk of plainly artificial good humour. “Certainly not when one has on hand such an expertly prepared cup of tea.”

 

The skeptical noise escapes before she can stop it; real amusement flirts briefly with the tight corners of his eyes as he lifts the cup and inhales. He takes a tentative sip – followed by another few that look progressively more forced – before lowering it again to the saucer. China clinks against china. “You have questions. Regarding the Major,” he observes in a suddenly weary voice. It feels a blatant non sequitur, a weak attempt at diversion. Maybe a stalling tactic.

 

“The Major,” Anthea repeats. He’s returned to staring vaguely through the steam, any trace of amusement dissipated, and this uncharacteristic sluggishness, the recurrent glaze to his eyes, is beginning to make the skin on the back of her scalp tingle.

 

“Aarons. You were quite interested in him earlier.”

 

“Was I?” Trust him to notice, no matter the circumstance. She receives another text from Westerfield’s aide; she’s going to have to tell him something. “Well I do generally find Americans to be quite interesting.”

 

 _Traffic. Grrrr._ Perhaps not. Even with Westerfield being an old school chum.

 

Mycroft doesn’t correct her guess about Aarons’ nationality, but there is a fleeting interaction of eye contact. “Indeed.” His gaze drops back to the cup; she doesn’t realize he’s actually eyeing the paracetamol until he scoops up the pills and chases them with a gulp of tea in abruptly decisive motion.

 

He looks terribly nauseous after this. She wonders if she should come up with a reason to leave the room. Her mobile signals the arrival of what she assumes is yet another text from Westerfield’s aide, and she glances down with a preemptive irritation. When all she sees are the words _Baker Street_ , she has to recheck the sender.

 

_???_

 

 _Now_.

 

“Sir? A message from Doctor Watson. A summons to Baker Street.”

 

He’s rested his head in a hand, elbow on the desk, but at this he looks up instantly, seemingly far more alert. She can see the possibilities spinning behind his eyes. “Locate my brother,” he rasps.

 

“Yes, sir.” Her fingers bounce across the screen; she finds the information she wants. “Seen entering the Baker Street address at oh-six-oh-seven this morning. Still reported to be inside.”

 

Probably not dead then, though they both know that in reality this intel means virtually nothing. There could still be something seriously wrong, and Sherlock’s certainly slipped his tail more than once. Still, Mycroft relaxes infinitesimally with this news, his eyes fluttering briefly closed as his chin dips into a nod. He pulls in a deep breath and opens them again. Begins to button up his collar.

 

“Ring for the car,” he says, getting up from the chair with an obvious wariness. He wobbles a little, cinches the knot in his tie. “Inform Lord Westerfield that I can no longer in good conscience be the cause of this unforgiveable delay to his midday meal, and that, should he allow me, I will make it up to him by cooking for him myself at the London flat when his schedule per… mmmngh… perm…”

 

She’d risen when he had, is already leaving to carry out her instructions. She turns back to see him with both hands flat on the desk, head bowed and face twisted with pain. “I’ll ring Doctor Watson,” she suggests. “Find out if you really need to go all the way over there.”

 

His gaze comes up from the blotter as if he might protest, but he winces, drops his head. Anthea finds the doctor’s number in her contacts, puts the call on speaker. It rings three times before there’s the click of a connection.

 

“John, it’s Anth—"

 

“He’s fine. Well, all right, not fine, but… _Sherlock! Bloody hell!_ ” There’s a distant clatter, and the voice returns with a new layer to its irritation. “Look, this isn’t something you’re going to want to discuss over the phone. Just get over here, yeah?” Another click.

 

They both look at the now silent phone, look at each other. Mycroft gives her a wry tired smile. 

 

“Well. It would seem, like it or not, that we must indeed go to Baker Street.”  

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been overcast all morning, but now a bit of sun peeks cheerfully through the clouds to beam directly in on them through the open car door. Mycroft pulls the brim of his hat lower over his eyes with an almost-inaudible grumble. There’s an obvious rigidity to his frame as he climbs out of the back seat, and as Anthea watches him over her mobile she silently curses Sherlock for whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into this time.

 

Two cars sit parked between them and the kerb, and Mycroft’s only just passed between them when she sees him pause. Something about his posture whispers a warning; she bites at her lip, waiting for him to move. When the driver gets behind the wheel again and he still hasn’t, Anthea slides across the back seat and opens the rear door. She makes a conscious effort not to fling it open, not to exit too quickly. It wouldn’t do to appear as if there were some sort of a problem.

 

She joins her employer on the sidewalk, grateful there are so few people about. Mycroft looks stuck, his gaze fixed on a line in the pavement as his umbrella serves as a tripod to brace his weight. It wobbles a little under his hands. His eyes jump to her as she enters his peripheral vision, close firmly. When she glances up to the windows of the flat she sees a bit of motion; real or imagined, she isn’t sure.

 

“A bit lightheaded,” he explains with a breathy forced levity, the words almost lost under the rumble of a lorry driving by. “Nothing of consequence. It’ll pass.”

 

“Shall we go back to the car, sir? Perhaps if I fetch Doctor Watson?”

 

“Absolutely not.“ A boy flies by on a skateboard, wheels crunching over the cement; the street door to the flat opens. Mycroft’s transformation is immediate and impressive, no doubt utterly convincing to anyone standing further than two meters away. As he straightens Anthea does her best to wipe the tension from her own expression. This close she can see that his eyes are still glassy, a bit unfocused, under the hat’s shadowing brim.

 

Mrs Hudson appears in the doorway; it’s impossible to judge the situation’s severity from her demeanor, as she seems her usual flurry of nervous energy. When Anthea considers her – which is not often – she always wonders what the woman was like before having Sherlock as a tenant. Mycroft of course would know. She’s never bothered to ask.

 

“Oh good, you’re here,” the landlady bubbles, already turning to lead him into the flat.

 

Anthea hesitates, hands hanging clasped together around her mobile, knowing she’s meant to wait in the car. She rarely visits the flat with him when he comes here; there’s no reason for her to be there. But today in particular it feels as if she’s sending him off alone into the lion’s den. She reminds herself that he doesn’t really need her for backup. That, even working in a diminished capacity, Mycroft is more than capable of taking care of himself.  She turns back to the car.

 

“Do stay.” It’s a murmur, the words so quiet that a moment later she wonders if she’d even really heard them. He doesn’t look at her as he takes a very deliberate step forward, followed by another upon the success of the first. The third wavers a little, and her fingers twitch with their restraint. She doesn’t touch him, but walks in his line of sight to offer what support she can.

 

Mrs Hudson waits impatiently in the foyer, one foot already on the stairs. Mycroft hangs his hat but retains his umbrella, eyeing the ascent what looks like resignation before starting up behind her. Anthea follows. “He won’t calm down at all until he talks with you,” the landlady explains, “and he needs to rest, the poor thing. It’s been three days! And John’s absolutely at his wits end trying to get through to him, the dear, and it’s so _awful_ when they quarrel. He says it was for a case, and maybe it was; they certainly don’t tell me what they’re up to. But he’s promised to try and sleep once he’s seen you –” 

 

They’re at the half landing when from above comes a blur of a raised voice, angry footsteps. A door slams hard enough to rattle the stairwell, and Mrs Hudson looks up with a fretful frown. Anthea’s focus is on her boss and the balancing hand that snakes out to briefly rest fingertips against the wall. It’s returned to his side before the older woman mournfully glances back.

 

She rushes them up the rest of the stairs. The sitting room, though never precisely spartan or tidy the few times Anthea’s been here, looks a disaster. Papers, books strewn everywhere, most of the furniture askew. At least three cups she can see, one under a table tipped into a drying stain of its own making. Above the hearth, thick black felt pen scrawl covers the mirror. She can’t read any of it from here.   

 

Her eyes widen fractionally; Mycroft’s narrow. His fingers tighten around the handle of his umbrella.

 

“Oh thank god,” John says from the middle of the mess. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

 

Mycroft steps over an upturned book to move into the middle of the room; Anthea remains in the background, by the wall near the open doorway. Mrs Hudson leaves them to head off toward the other end of the flat. “Sherlock, dear,” the woman calls out sweetly, “I’ve brought your brother. Now that he’s here, you can calm down and explain it all to him, all right?”

 

“Three days,” the doctor mutters, doing his best to gather the papers covering the table into some semblance of a pile. “Can’t manage to be on his own for three bloody days.”

 

It’s a contrast to the John Watson she’s used to, the calm patience seemingly evaporated in the face of the chaos, of whatever it is that Sherlock’s been up to. He’s scowling around him, completely absorbed by the current drama.

 

“You’ve been away,” Mycroft says dully. Anthea flattens a wince, knowing someone’s going to be on the hook for not informing him of this. She hopes it’s not her; it’s more than a full-time job just keeping track of the life of one Holmes brother.

 

“Medical conference,” the doctor says. His glance flicks up from the table to Mycroft and back, too superficial it seems to take in how heavily her boss is leaning on that umbrella. “Got back a few hours ago to find –“

 

A door somewhere bangs open; a beat later a disheveled Sherlock sweeps into the room from the kitchen. “Finally! Someone I can to talk to.”  He’s unshaven, wild looking. Visibly jittery as he buzzes through in his dressing gown.

 

“ _I’ve_ been trying to talk to you, you git!”

 

“Someone who’ll _understand_ , John.”

 

Mycroft’s placid expression doesn’t change as Sherlock moves rapidly into his personal space, the two brothers standing nose to nose. He waits silently as Sherlock’s eyes jump disjointedly about his features, seemingly searching for something. Even from here Anthea can tell that those eyes are red-rimmed, hugely dilated.

 

When he darts away from his brother to unexpectedly crowd her instead, she can also tell that it’s been a few days since he’s last bathed. She keeps her expression neutral as he inexplicably flits around her, determinedly projecting her practiced ennui to hide her discomfort. It’s difficult when he ducks in close to breathe deeply of the fabric of her coat at her shoulder.

 

Stumbling away without a word to fling himself down onto the sofa, his fingers drum out a frenetic beat on the upholstered arm. A second later he’s up again, moving to the window to peer out from behind an edge of the curtain.

 

“Been like this for days, Mrs Hudson says. Won’t even tell me what he’s taken.” Mycroft doesn’t visibly react, having probably deduced the problem the moment they entered downstairs based on some clue that she’d missed. Maybe guessed it before they’d arrived. She doesn’t know; he’d been silent on the way over, mostly staring vacantly toward his shoes.

 

“Oh for god’s sake, it was for a _case_ ,” Sherlock whines petulantly from the window. He lets the curtain fall. “Absolutely necessary.” He casts his eyes about the room before turning to peek out of the window again. “Absolutely. Really, how many times…” His voice fades into a mumble, his gaze fixed on a spot outside. The hand not lifting the curtain twitches erratically at his side.

 

“And this case?” Mycroft asks. The doctor’s eyebrows offer an uninformed shrug. “Sherlock?”

 

The figure at the window jerks, turns chewing on a thumbnail to squint at his brother for a long  moment before abruptly bolting to the defaced mirror. He picks up the felt pen on the mantle and squeaks out another rushed notation. It simply looks like more haphazard scribbles to Anthea. There may be a couple of numbers in there.

 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft tries again. Sherlock continues to ignore them, scratching roughly at his scalp as he fills in various unmarked spots on the glass. His lips are moving, but if he’s actually making noise Anthea can’t hear him. “You wished to speak with me and I am here,” the elder brother says. “Do try to pull your wits about you long enough to have a proper conversation, hmm?”

 

Sherlock throws a glare at his brother, his eyes sliding warily over to his flatmate, away, before returning again to their irritated expression. Now he’s back to the mirror, jotting another illegible line. Anthea temporarily minimizes the schedule on her mobile screen to search for the contact details of a rehab facility they’ve used before, sending a preemptive message inquiring about the availability of empty beds.

 

She wonders if the other two can hear the pinched note in Mycroft’s affected boredom. She certainly hopes that they don’t have to linger here long. Her stomach makes an unladylike noise, reminding her – unnecessarily – that they’re also missing lunch.

 

Sherlock goes to the window again, the felt pen dangling forgotten from his fingers as he peers intently out. Mycroft squeezes the bridge of his nose in an overly theatrical gesture that Anthea knows is not merely for show. “Why, precisely, did you summon me here, Doctor? You are his physician; if you decide that this… _situation_ warrants further treatment, arrangements can certainly be made. But I’ve other things to do today than stand here acting the mediator in your various domestic squabbles. Surely you can handle this on your own.”   

 

“Yeah, might’ve done,” the doctor agrees, perhaps a touch defensively, “but somewhere after the rubbish poetry about butterflies and a rambling lecture on cyanide, he started on about this conspiracy that he insisted could only be explained to you –”

 

“The shoes,” Sherlock says, not turning from the window. Drawing the attention back to himself as he always must. “Amateurish. Would’ve taken far longer without the shoes…”

 

“Not sure if he’s onto something or if it’s just paranoia. I can’t get any details out of him.” John shrugs, drops into the armchair. “I figured I’d just let you deal with it, to be honest. You being the only one he wants to talk to.”

 

“You have a new car?” Sherlock interrupts urgently from his place at the curtain. 

 

In answer Mycroft moves across the room to stand at his brother’s shoulder; there’s a quickly-checked recoil as the brighter light hits his eyes when he bends to look through the glass. He searches for whatever’s captured Sherlock’s interest, not looking long before he turns his back on the window, blinking repeatedly. “Your neighbor’s,” he murmurs. Clearing his throat, he manages to add more color to his voice. “Purchased weeks ago, and parked in that exact spot most days since.”

 

Sherlock scowls at his brother, disappears into the kitchen. The other two men simply stand staring after him, and for a moment it feels to Anthea as if her life is the only one not revolving around this overgrown child and the possibilities of his return. She’s watching her boss instead, trying to remain dispassionate when he winces and a hand comes up to briefly press fingertips to his temple; in those few honest seconds he looks absolutely knackered. The doctor’s attention is admittedly elsewhere, but still she wonders at his medical skills that he can’t see it.

 

Mycroft straightens perceptibly when his brother shuffles back into the room, the elder Holmes again radiating a cultivated disinterest. Sherlock shoots furtive looks in the doctor’s direction as he sidles up to his sibling. “I must speak with you. Alone,” he hisses. “We haven’t much time.” He turns away, gets a couple of steps before he stops. There’s a silent frowning communion with the felt pen he’s still holding. “What’s wrong with you?” he demands suddenly, that frown swinging up to Mycroft’s face with barely an inch between them. “There’s something…”

 

With a tight smile, Mycroft takes a step backward. “Yes, I’m sure you have an entire list at the ready, brother mine. But it seems instead we must once again discuss your unfortunate propensity for… redecorating.” He pokes at a splayed book with the umbrella, the pointed motion hitching in an awkward twitch of repetition when the original angle doesn’t connect. She wonders if Sherlock catches it.

 

He’s pulling at a clump of his hair, the dirty curls left quirked into an unnatural bend. “For a bloody case! A case, a case, a case!” he yells, stomping his way across the room. “… incapable of listening…” The felt pen’s hurled into a corner, and he scoops up his violin. Eyes on his brother, he drags a slow, excruciatingly tuneless moan from the strings.

 

Mycroft flinches, his entire body stiffening; Sherlock smirks, launches into something a bit frantic but more melodic. There’s a hint of amusement on the doctor’s face now too, as if somehow her boss deserves any and all aggravation simply by virtue of being blood. Perhaps to his eye the obvious muscle tension, the clenched jaw, read as mere frustration.

 

Sherlock wanders about as he continues to play, and it’s difficult to determine how many of the sporadic discordant notes are missed intentionally. Anthea’s mobile vibrates as she receives a reply from the facility. There’s a message from Mycroft’s in-person appointment as well, asking to reschedule; she quickly fills the meeting in on Friday’s calendar, happy to strike an item from the afternoon’s list.

 

She glances up from the screen as Mycroft turns rigidly toward the seated Doctor Watson, his knuckles disturbingly white where they wrap around the umbrella handle. There’s a tiny unfamiliar tic under his right eye, in evidence each time the furious song skips with another jarring squeal. “Your opinion, Doctor. Are you capable of managing this here, or shall I take my brother with me?” The violin squawks indignantly; Mycroft’s eyes close, his nostrils flaring. “If you’ve an opinion to contribute, Sherlock, kindly use actual words.”

 

The doctor doesn’t appear to appreciate the brusque condescension either. “Yeah, I’d say I’m _capable_ ,” he answers dryly. “I only reached out because he wanted you here. If he’s changed his mind, then I suppose we don’t need you. I’m sure you’ve more _important_ things to be doing.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes snap open, lock onto John’s in a narrowed unwavering gaze. The music drifts off into a ringing echo, and Anthea looks past them expecting to see Sherlock’s glittering focus intent on the developing scene. Instead he stands neck bent and arms hanging, violin and bow dangling loosely from his fingers. Unruly curls obscure any view of his face. He’s swaying a bit, and her lips part to alert the other two.

 

Before she can speak, Sherlock makes a soft sound that grabs their attention. Both men turn that way, the umbrella clattering forgotten to the floor under the noise of John calling his friend’s name. Mycroft is at his brother’s side before the doctor’s even completely out of his chair, a steadying hand between Sherlock’s shoulderblades as he speaks with him. Their heads are close together, most of the conversation impossible to overhear.

 

 “… mustn’t involve John… dangerous…” is all she gets from the murmuring. It’s obvious that the doctor hears it too.

 

“Sorry, what?” he says, his head cocked to one side as he takes a step toward them.

 

The Holmes brothers ignore him, Sherlock’s lips moving again. “Yes, all right,” Mycroft says reassuringly. “But first, it’s past time to sit I should think.” His hand shifts to Sherlock’s arm, the other rescuing the carelessly suspended instrument just as inattentive fingers let it go. The bow falls to the floor.

 

Mycroft leads Sherlock to the sofa, handing the violin to the doctor as they pass. It’s the only acknowledgement given him; he’s clearly not pleased by this. She sees his mouth open once, twice, in aborted protest. He takes another step toward them, stops.

 

Slumped forward on the sofa cushions, Sherlock says something else; Mycroft bends over him for a moment, nods. There’s a cringe to his eyes as he straightens. A constriction to his voice when he unexpectedly says, “Over here, Mrs Hudson, if you’d be so kind.”

 

Anthea and John turn to find the landlady entering the room with a tea tray, the surprise on her face a mirror of their own. With a small smile she shrugs, carries the tray over to the sofa as directed. Mycroft pours a cup for his brother, coaxes Sherlock’s fingers to keep hold of it. Sherlock obeys but doesn’t drink, an echo of Mycroft this morning as he sits staring distantly through the steam.

 

The doctor will be excluded no longer, and he starts to move toward his friend on the sofa. Mycroft intercepts him before he gets very far. “Merely exhaustion, Doctor.”

 

The other man’s eyes flash in an angry profile. “Yeah, I’d like to decide that for myself if it’s all the same to you.”

 

“You forget…” The sentence flutters away in an exhale as Mycroft pales dramatically, his eyes closing. His hand darts out to grab for the stability of the nearby armchair in an uncharacteristically jerky motion. “You forget that my brother and I have been through this many times,” he persists, voice strained and eyes still closed.

 

Anthea takes an involuntary step that way; the doctor blinks, frowning as he finally really looks at her boss. As if sensing this, Mycroft opens his eyes, lifts his chin. A tiny twitch of the fingers at his side tells her that she’s expected not to interfere.

 

“I will speak with him first,” he continues. “I suspect we don’t have long if we wish to get any information from him.” Releasing his grip on the chair, he adjusts his shirt cuffs with what feels like a forced nonchalance. “Alone, as he requested,” he adds, peering imperiously down his nose at the doctor.

 

John is plainly not thrilled with this plan. “Now wait a minute, I –“

 

“We’re wasting time, Doctor. If there’s anything to this conspiracy theory, I require the details now. Not in sixteen hours when he wakes up.” At this they all glance over at Sherlock, a puppet with cut strings on the sofa. Mrs Hudson perches beside him, the tray on the coffee table in front of them.

 

The doctor scowls, teetering between compliance and stubborn forward motion. His concern shifted entirely back to Sherlock now, Mycroft forgotten. Anthea’s focus is the opposite, her hand unconsciously squeezing the sides of her mobile as she sees again how extremely unsteady, nauseous, her employer appears. The deep shadows under his eyes the only color to the skin stretched over his pained features.

 

“Sir, we –“ she begins, slightly holding up the mobile as if to imply some scheduled appointment they need to get to. An excuse if he wants to make use of it.

 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he snaps waspishly, cutting her off. “Now would you please take these two and _go_.”

 

The doctor marches muttering off to the kitchen, the landlady hurriedly getting to her feet and scurrying to follow. Anthea joins them as Mycroft turns back to his brother. John’s studying her with an odd expression as she enters, speculating no doubt on either the unusually terse tone or her unguarded flicker of a reaction.  

 

“What was that about? He all right?”

 

_As if you care_. She gives him a long steely stare before turning to her mobile. Tries to unclench her fingers from around the plastic.

 

Twelve minutes. She watches the time as she skims through emails. The doctor’s positioned himself with an optimal view through the open doorway, and – unless she wants to stand pressed against his shoulder or on tiptoe behind him – her only option is to watch his face for situation updates. She sneaks glances up from her screen to monitor his expression, despite recognizing the futility of it. He’s not going to see what she’d see.

 

Stepping out onto the landing to take a call she gains a view into the sitting room through the other door, but she’s disappointed to find that she can still only see a sliver of her boss from this angle. The toe of a polished shoe, a bent knee. Now a flash of the beaked nose, the point of a sideburn, a shoulder, as he turns on the sofa. Turning back again, he leans forward to set a cup on the low coffee table. Seems to misjudge the distance, the saucer cracking too loudly against the wood.

 

The frown that appears is quickly erased. Mycroft stands, takes a step forward to meet the doctor already entering from the opposite side of the room. Anthea comes in through the other door. She can see Sherlock now, an unconscious mess of curls on one end of the sofa.

 

“Right. Time someone tells me what’s going on,” John demands in a stage whisper.

 

Mycroft smiles with a false affability, speaks at a normal volume. “I suspect he won’t regain consciousness for some time, Doctor. No need to trouble yourself.”

 

John drops the whisper. “Fine. What’d he say to you?”

 

“You’re welcome to ask him when he wakes. Perhaps he’ll be more willing to share the details with you then.” A pause with a blink that lasts just a bit too long; Mycroft licks his lips, swallows. “As for this latest spate of atrocious behaviour, I’m assured by my brother that it is at an end. For the moment I believe him. But you will, of course, keep me informed.”

 

“Oh of _course_ ,” the doctor replies. He walks around Mycroft to the sofa, bends to check Sherlock’s pulse. “Any truth to it, do you think?” he asks as he straightens out Sherlock’s legs, lays a blanket over him. The taller man doesn’t so much as stir.

 

Mycroft watches them, a distance to his gaze. There’s a lag of several seconds before he reanimates in the doctor’s expectant silence, blinking and pulling a breath in through his nose. “I’ll play my role, Doctor; you play yours. Take care of my brother. Should there be anything you require, you know how to contact me.”

 

It’s all the farewell he offers. Without waiting for a response, he steps over a sloping pile of books and exits the flat.

 

John looks after him for a moment, his eyes briefly jumping to Anthea by the door before he shakes his head and turns to the sleeping Sherlock. Anthea doesn’t mind the casual dismissal, just as she doesn’t mind that her employer had passed her without a word or glance. She’s used to being invisible. She knows she’s meant to follow.

 

What bothers her is the fact that Mycroft forgot his umbrella.

 

It stuns her for a second, that quintessential swath of black left abandoned on the carpet. As if she had misplaced her mobile; despite knowing that the device is in her hand, she still has to glance down to check. Forcing her face blank and her feet to move, she crosses the room to retrieve the accessory. Let the doctor think it was intentionally left behind for her to fetch, if he’s even paying any attention.

 

John seems to only have eyes for Sherlock as she crouches to pick it up, but when she straightens again she finds the landlady studying her instead. “He works too hard, the poor dear,” she says with a sad smile.

 

Anthea isn’t completely certain which brother she refers to, isn’t about to share her personal opinion on either count. They have John’s interest now, his face turned toward them with its questioning eyebrows. Anthea meets his expression with an arched eyebrow of her own, tosses the landlady a well-rehearsed candy-sweet smile. Mobile in one hand and umbrella in the other, she ignores them both and walks out of the room.

 

Mycroft’s not on the stairs, but his hat still hangs in the entryway. With pursed lips she adds it to her collection. Stepping out of the building she sees their car parked across the street, Mycroft and Edwin standing by the open rear door. From here her boss and their driver could be engaged in conversation, small talk perhaps to pass the time until she arrives. Except Mycroft doesn’t really do small talk. And neither man’s lips are moving.    

 

Edwin’s not their regular driver, but there’s no need for familiarity to be able to read the blatant relief in his eyes when he sees her approach. She takes in at a glance Mycroft’s bowed head, his closed eyes and the desperate grip he has on the top of the open door, and she waves Edwin away. He disappears back into the car without protest.

 

There’s no reaction as she takes the man’s place. “Sir?” she tries softly. Mycroft’s frozen, breathing harshly through his nose. She turns away from the sweat at his hairline to look up and down the street, wary of curious passerby. “It might help to get out of the sun,” she suggests, risking a light touch on his arm.

 

He tenses, his eyes fluttering open before the brightness slams them shut once more. He’s trembling under her fingertips. Chewing on her lower lip she locates the windows of 221B, but there’s no evidence of anyone watching this time. Finally there’s a tiny bob of his head; it takes a bit longer before he actually starts to move. Anthea inches in closer, trying to make her assistance less obvious as he slowly lowers himself into the back seat.

 

She closes the door, circles around the boot to let herself in on the opposite side. Mycroft twitches when she pulls the other door shut, but doesn’t lift his head from where it rests heavily against the seat cushion.  Anthea waits, unsure of what to do.

 

“Apologies, my dear,” he eventually breathes into the thick silence, his eyes still closed. “Terribly rude of me to speak to you like that.”

 

It takes her a minute to connect the words back to inside. “You’re not yourself,” she murmurs.

 

“I feel bloody dreadful,” he sighs.

 

The admission twists her stomach; she’s only heard this kind of honesty from him on a couple of occasions. One of those was after an off the books meeting gone sideways had left him nursing three cracked ribs and a seventeen centimeter gash down his side. “Should I direct Edwin to the flat rather than the office?” she asks levelly.

 

Another long silence in the motionless car, in which she senses that he may truly be considering the option. She pulls up the schedule again on her mobile. There’s a conference call with several members of the Treasury in forty minutes. Perhaps an invented family emergency?

 

“Impossible,” he mumbles, fingers massaging his forehead. He drops his hand, eyes slitted as he carefully raises his head. “I’ll need all the information you can gather on two men, both RMP. Mitchell, Thomas and Benchurch, Edmund. Not through the usual channels with this one, if you please.”

 

Work it is, then. “Of course,” she says, signaling to Edwin to get them moving. “You think Sherlock might’ve really discovered something?”

 

“My brother…” The statement drifts wearily away, his vacant gaze directed somewhere near the door handle. “My brother is rarely wrong. And also, unfortunately, rarely sensible.” Mycroft rubs at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, runs the hand over his forehead and through his hair. “It might be wise to contact Chatman’s, inquire if they’re willing to take him should it come to that.”

 

“Already done, sir. They’ll hold a bed for him upon your request.”

 

Surprise turns his head quickly. Too quickly. The smile flattens into something nearer a grimace. “Indispensable,” he says, a flicker of the emotion still in his eyes. They dance about her face for a moment, but she’s accustomed to the scrutiny. She simply smiles back until his line of sight wanders to the tinted window behind her.

 

“Check in with Doctor Watson tom—” The jarring bump of the rear tire over a pothole fractures the word into a gasp. One hand flies to his head, the other digging into the edge of the bench seat with clawed fingers. Anthea sends a text to Edwin on the other side of the glass, warning him to exercise more caution if he enjoys the thought of keeping his job. It’s the only thing she can do besides sit here.

 

She pretends to be busy with her mobile, but she’s mostly watching the fingers denting the black leather, waiting for them to relax. When they finally do, he doesn’t look at her. Sinking back into the sumptuous cushions with a low hiss of an exhale, he props an elbow on the windowsill and covers his eyes. “Excuse me, my dear” he murmurs from behind his hand. “Would you mind terribly if we were to continue this conversation later?”

 

“No, of course not.”

 

A grateful smile slides on and off of his lips. She can practically hear him retreat into his mind. She turns to her phone, but spends more time watching him than actually reading her email. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak to her for the rest of the ride.

 

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

 

The call’s been in progress for over an hour when she taps on his door; entering quietly, she crosses the office to where he sits. Slumped over the desk with his head supported by a hand, he’s missing his suit coat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar of his shirt gaping under the loosened loop of his tie. He doesn’t look up when she sets the tea beside him, the saucer ringed with the biscuits he likes and another round of paracetamol. Over the speaker, a voice drones in an unbroken monotone.

 

The air’s stuffy, acrid. Dimly lit only by the scant rays that crawl in through the window. When it becomes apparent that he’s not going to acknowledge her, she turns to go. She’s almost to the door when he moves, his free hand sliding across the desk to press a button on the phone. “Gentlemen, I’ve yet to hear any discussion regarding the Turkey situation.” His voice is hoarse; he doesn’t lift his head from his hand. “In light of current circumstance, I’m sure you’ll agree that that would be a much better use of our limmm… of our limited time...”

 

Muting the speaker, he nearly knocks into the teacup as he twists in his chair to hunch over the bin. The multitude of voices on the phone tumble over one another, over the sound of his unproductive retching. Anthea cringes, frozen in place though she thinks he’d prefer her to go; it’s difficult to simply walk away when he looks so miserable. And she’s already formulating possible excuses should she need to step in on the call.

 

“Imbeciles,” Mycroft groans, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth. The shine of his vest stretches grey over the arc of his back as he clings to the edge of the desk with a pale hand.       

 

“Can I do anything?”

 

“Replace the Treasury.” He gradually reorients his position, elbows resting on the blotter. The handkerchief still crumpled in his hand. “You have information for me,” he says.

 

She doesn’t bother to try and suss out what had given him this impression. “I’ve begun a file on one of your two RMPs. Mitchell. Not a lot yet, but I could bring you what I have if you’d like.”

 

Ordinarily he’d be working on at least two other things while on a call, easy for him to split his focus. But there’s a tiny shake of his bowed head. “Unfortunately, it will have to wait. I’m afraid I’m unable to read much of anything at the moment.” His attention shifts abruptly to the phone, a frown compressing his lips as he presses the speaker button. “Yes, and why don’t we hand them the entire sector while we’re at it?” he barks in response to something she hadn’t heard. There’s another babbling rush of too many people speaking at once; Mycroft winces and hits the button again, dropping his head back into his hand. “Utterly pointless,” he mumbles, tugging the knot in his tie further awry.

 

“If you don’t need me, I was thinking about popping out for something to eat. I don’t suppose there’s anything…?”

 

A dismissive wave from the hand not propping up his head; the deep crimson of the handkerchief flashes like blood between the white of his fingers.

 

She’s not surprised by the answer, though she was hoping for a different one. “You might at least try to drink some of the tea, sir. You’re likely dehydrated.”

 

“Yes, thank you.” His tone warns that she’s creeping too far over the line. She nods despite him not being able to see it, exits. Closes the door behind herself as he rejoins the call. “Oh, brilliant. And then we can watch as the entire bloody thing collapses ten minutes later…”

 

Lunch is brief but busy, and between rushed bites of her sandwich she manages to reschedule two more of the afternoon’s calls. The only thing left now is a planning meeting, too many people involved to easily postpone. Feeling accomplished, she grabs a container of soup to go and returns to the office.

 

Putting her handbag away in her desk she glances toward the phone, able to tell by the lack of lights that the call has ended. She wonders if Mycroft had simply hung up on them in frustration. It’s doubtful his mood’s much improved, but she wants to let him know that she’s returned should he need anything. Doubtful also that he’s going to want any of the soup, so she heads for his closed door without it.

 

When she enters he’s slouched in the desk chair, staring at nothing as he rolls a prescription bottle absently between his thumb and fingers. In the meager light his face has a ghostly pallor, its angles all too sharp. “I begin to think these blasted things an inevitability if I hope to get through the rest of this interminable day,” he observes softly, not breaking the distant gaze.

 

He’s not soliciting her opinion, but she offers it anyway. “I think that’s an excellent idea, sir.”

    

“Hmm…” After a moment he blinks, shifts just enough to pull out his pocket watch. Every movement feels a conscious effort to alter his position as little as possible. He squints at the clock face, scowls. 

 

“Twenty past two,” she supplies, when the scowl turns expectantly her way. 

 

Mycroft sighs, rubs at his left eyebrow with his fingertips. “And we are expecting Lord Ellingwood when?”

 

“Lord Ellingwood has requested to meet with you on Friday instead, sir. In fact most of your afternoon is now free, the only outstanding obligation being the planning meeting at four.” He frowns, and she wonders if she’ll be admonished for overreaching her authority. “Nothing vital or time-sensitive,” she assures him. “A very organic rearrangement.”

 

“I see.” The pill bottle is set upright on the blotter; he watches it as if it might speak.

 

“Can I refresh your tea, sir? I brought back some soup from Luran’s if you’d –“

 

He waves the rest of the sentence away. “Tea will be quite sufficient, thank you.”

 

She does as she’s bid without comment, returns to her own work. It’s almost four when she sees him again. Letting herself into his office she finds him stretched out on the sofa in near darkness, an arm slung up over his eyes. His shoes lined up neatly on the floor, his feet in their socks crossed at the ankles and propped up on one of the armrests. There’s no reaction to her entrance. She stands watching him for a few minutes, trying to decide if he’s sleeping. Trying to decide if she should wake him up.

 

“Sir?”

 

The response is dramatic, floundering; instantly he’s in motion, intent upon getting off the sofa. Eyes clouded with confusion as he fights to get his bearings. Attempting to stand before he’s found his balance, his heel comes down on the side of a shoe and he stumbles. Missing the sofa, he crashes to the floor onto one knee.

 

“My brother…” he’s mumbling as she crouches beside him. His hair’s unusually mussed, and there’s a red line across his nose where a crinkle of his sleeve has temporarily creased his skin. “I must… my…” Bleary eyes flit about without landing. He tries unsuccessfully to use the sofa to haul himself up.

 

“Your brother is as we left him a few hours ago, Or at least I’ve had no reports to the contrary.” Without meaning to, she finds she’s slipped into the tone she remembers using with their neighbor’s horses when she was a child. “Everything’s all right. It’s just the medication, making it difficult to think.”

 

She watches as this sinks in with an unbearable sluggishness. “Yes… yes of course…”

 

Small wonder that he avoids taking these pills. Despite her reassurances, his acknowledgement, he still looks unsettled. There’s a flash of resentment toward Sherlock and his sidekick, the way they expect him to appear when they need him and fade away again when they’re done. Like a genie to be summoned and then forgotten once he’s back in the bottle.  

 

Groping for the cushion he attempts to pull himself up off the floor again; she lends her assistance and he makes it up onto the sofa. He’s freezing under her hands. Sitting beside him she looks around for some sort of blanket, though she doesn’t recall ever having seen one in here. Mycroft rubs his eyes, sagging into the cushions. “Forgive me… I’m afraid I…” Now he struggles to sit up, fumbling for the chain of his watch. “The call… What time is it?”

 

“Just four now, sir.”

 

He looks at her sharply, gets a couple of centimeters up off the sofa before collapsing back down with a faint moan and a hand to his head. “I suppose you’ve taken it upon yourself to cancel that as well?” he exhales after a moment.

 

Weak as it is, the inferred reprimand still carries a sting. “No, sir. But…”

 

 “Yes?” he hisses against the leather cushion when she doesn’t continue.

 

She looks at the exhausted, crumpled, shivering personification of the British Government in front of her. Takes a deep breath and pushes on. “I only wonder, sir, if your presence is really vital to this meeting. Mightn’t you just read the minutes tomorrow?”

 

“… expected…” he murmurs, colourless lips brushing the leather as the cushion takes more of his weight.

 

“Yes, sir. But is it necessary?” Mycroft hums thoughtfully behind closed eyes, the drugs clearly working to reclaim their hold. “Is it your honest opinion that the country might fall if you miss this particular meeting?”

 

There’s a long silence, and she thinks for a second that he might’ve dozed off. “I suppose you’ve made your point,” he finally sighs. His eyes blink languidly open, roll a bit before they find her. Lips part as if he might say something else, but his fractured attention drifts instead to the room behind her. “… s’very dark in here…”

 

“Yes, sir.” The more sedated, unaware he seems, the more anxious she feels. Her fingertips tingle with the emotion she’s filtering from her voice. “Shall I turn on some of the lights?”

 

“Please don’t.” His head, his eyelids droop; it looks an effort to raise them again. “What of… what of, ah…”

 

She has no idea what it is he’s referring to, but there’s a compulsive need to try and assuage the aphasic frustration in his expression. “It’ll keep until tomorrow,” she promises blindly. She can’t think of anything that won’t, and she’ll have her mobile should something come up. “May I ask Edwin to bring the car around?”

 

“Mmm…” is his nonresponse. Eventually he wriggles to prop himself up on his shoulder, begins clumsily unrolling a shirt sleeve. “Very well.” She watches the cloth reveal itself by wrinkled centimeters. “It would… would seem I’ve few other…” The sentence dangles like the sleeve.

 

When there’s nothing more forthcoming, she rests a hand on the leather beside his knee. His eyes jump from the cuff to her fingers, up to her face. He blinks, nods and begins lethargically to put on his shoes. Her mobile buzzes with the arrival of six new emails to be dealt with. She texts Edwin, tells him they’ll soon be needing him out front.

 

Though, with as slowly as her boss is moving, she suspects _soon_ might be a relative term. Mycroft smoothes down his hair, starts to work on the buttons at his collar. Not realizing, apparently, that the other sleeve is still rolled to his elbow. Anthea spots his suit coat draped over the back of the desk chair, rises from the sofa to go get it. As she picks it up, the mobile in the inside pocket vibrates with an incoming call.

 

Far fewer people have this number, and as much as she’d like to ignore it she can’t. She’s relieved at least to see that it isn’t Sherlock. Mycroft holds out a weary hand for the mobile and she carries it over to him; he peers at it for a second, answers in English before switching to Japanese. Anthea turns on the desk lamp, catching the occasional stray word as she shuts down his computer, tidies things up.

 

The conversation ends quickly; he exhales audibly, pinches the bridge of his nose. After a moment he rouses himself, tugs at the truncated sleeve. “Problem?” she asks, moving a thick stack of files to a drawer with the intention of locking them up.

 

“I certainly hope not.” He notices what she’s doing and gestures for her to stop. “I’ll take those. Perhaps I’ll be able to look at them later.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she agrees dubiously, as he stands unsteadily and begins to put on his jacket. His motions all feel overcautious, performed with an exaggerated concentration. His lashes flutter as he fixes his tie.

 

She turns off the lamp and gathers his things as he moves slowly toward the door. When he crosses the threshold he immediately raises a hand against the brightness of the outer office, staggers back into the room. “Oh good Lord,” he chokes, slumping against the dark wall.

 

Her frown is sympathetic, useless, as she approaches. “… m’all right… quite…” he mumbles before she can say anything. His suit whispers up the wall as he straightens, hooded eyes halfheartedly searching the shadows. “Where’s that bloody…”

 

She hands him his hat; he smiles in grim gratitude and puts it on, pulling it down as low as he can over his eyes. He takes his umbrella, his case from her, and she heads for her desk to get her own bag. Fingertips pressed to his forehead, he lingers in the doorway as she collects what she needs to work from home.

 

It’s late in the day, but there are still plenty of people about. As they walk down the corridor her focus flicks between her mobile and the surrounding offices, preparing to run interference if necessary. She can’t help but steal the occasional glance at her boss, at those narrowed eyes and gritted teeth, his expression a mask of empty determination as he deliberately puts one foot ahead of the other. Her mobile vibrates, reclaiming her attention. Another email.

 

By the time they near the lifts the steps beside her are closer to a somnolent shuffling, the umbrella acting more as walking stick than accessory. It seems as if he might continue past without stopping; she leans in with the mobile as if discussing something on the screen. “The lift, sir,” she says under her breath, subtlely trying to steer him that way. Mycroft blinks like a man coming out of a dream. He nods, turns obediently toward the bank of doors.

 

Once inside he all but collapses against the back wall, fingers gripping the rail like it’s the only thing holding him up. The briefcase trembles where it hangs from his other hand. As Anthea reaches for the button for ground level, she sees Eliza, one of the newer secretaries on the floor, rushing to catch the lift. She pushes the button anyway.

 

“So sorry,” she calls out as the doors begin to close between them. “Confidential discussion. You understand.” The other woman’s pout thins to a sliver, disappears.

 

The car settles into their stop with a jarring rattle, and Mycroft stumbles to find his balance. The lobby seems composed entirely of reflective surfaces at this hour, the sun slanting in through the windows to bounce back from endless bits of glass and chrome. He hesitates as they step out, squares his shoulders and presses on. Anthea follows, even knowing what she knows still caught up in the performance. It isn’t until he rustles through one of the lobby’s potted plants with an elbow that she realizes he’s probably crossing the space virtually blind.

 

The outside afternoon is no better, clouds burned away to reveal a startlingly blue sky. Everything sparkles with light, noise. Mycroft’s shoulders stiffen further, but he doesn’t pause. The metal tip of the umbrella taps out their path down the wide stone stairs.

 

“Holmes!” comes a shout from behind them. “Holmes, wait!”

 

Mycroft freezes, his chin dropping to his chest as he takes a slow measured breath. Anthea looks back to see Martin Hemsley, a weasly little man from the Foreign Office, hurrying toward them down the stairs. She takes a step that way, preparing to intercept him, but her employer lifts his head with a stretched smile.

 

“I didn’t think I’d catch you,” the man huffs as he reaches them.

 

“How very fortunate for us that you underestimated,” Mycroft answers dryly.

 

“You all right, old boy? You look dreadful. Not getting the flu that’s going around the place, are you?”

 

“Mmm.” If his smile stretches any further it may crack. “Was there something you _wanted_ , Hemsley?”

 

“I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to talk to you for a few moments about that report…”

 

Anthea’s mobile vibrates in her fingers, and she steps away to take the call. It’s from the American Embassy. She informs them that her boss is currently unavailable, that the meeting he’s in could last indefinitely. Promises she’ll have him contact them at the earliest opportunity. Hanging up, she walks back to the two men with the mobile in her hand. She waits at a respectable distance until Hemsley takes a breath.

 

“Sir? Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt…” She holds up the mobile. “That call you were expecting. It’s come through.”

 

Mycroft blinks at her, a few disconcerting seconds of incomprehension, before taking it out of her hand. “Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “You’ll excuse me, Hemsley.”

 

Perspiration glitters on the back of his neck as he turns to descend the rest of the stairs; she sees Edwin waiting with the car at the kerb. She’s about to follow when Hemsley stops her with a hand on her shoulder. It’s heavy, warm.

 

His voice comes too close to her ear. “Look after the old boy, won’t you? Plenty of fluids. Bed rest.”

 

The last two words curl out a smoky insinuation. Anthea turns, imagining that her artificial smile is painted with sugar. Poison sugar that she can lick off and spit at him. She directs a pointed glance to the hand on her shoulder; he removes it.  Meeting his eyes with her lethal smile, she vividly envisions kneeing him in the groin. He looks away first.

 

She leaves him on the stairs.

 

Edwin stands by the open car door, studiously stone-faced. His mask slips a little as she approaches, eyes darting toward the shadows of the back seat before quickly facing front again. She ignores him, steps in gracefully. She’d swear she can feel Hemsley’s unctuous gaze still between her shoulderblades.

 

Mycroft’s sunk into the corner by the far door, breathing shallowly with a hand covering his face. She grabs her mobile from the seat between them. “Thank you,” he rasps once they’ve started moving. “That man is odious even under the best of circumstances.”

 

Anthea has no argument. She’s glad he hadn’t witnessed that last exchange. “You’re welcome.” He shifts uncomfortably against the leather, and there’s a flicker of a grimace behind the long fingers. “There _was_ a call, from a Mr Armstrong at the American Embassy. I let him know that the meeting you’re currently in could last quite a while. He’d like you to ring him when you have a chance.”

 

A tic of a nod; she can’t decide if this information had been anticipated. There’s nothing else. It’s a crawling ride through the city in late afternoon traffic, and she spends most of it reaching out to a few personal contacts through delicately worded emails. At some point she realizes that her boss has fallen asleep beside her. The hand over his face has slipped to expose his profile, the hat tipped askew; his brow furrows, lips twitching as if shaping words. In the dim light from the tinted windows, he suddenly looks merely a man.

 

She leaves him alone until they turn onto his street, debating the best way to rouse him without repeating the shock of earlier. In the end she doesn’t have to; he wakes on his own with a jolt when the car comes to a stop. No less disoriented, his eyes ricochet around the interior, to the window.

 

“Home, sir,” she supplies gently. It’s difficult to watch his magnificent brain sputtering, struggling to pull together the pieces. “The flat.”

 

“Ah. Yes.” He drags a hand down the length of his face, cups the back of his bent neck to knead the muscles there. The fingers of his other hand creep toward his watch, falter. “The time?”

 

“Quarter past five. Nothing left for the day but to relax. Rest.”

 

It sounds a feeble platitude as it leaves her mouth, an absurd thing to say to him of all people. His cough of a laugh seems to agree. “Would that that were true,” he mumbles to the hat in his lap, head still hanging. “I may be having a conversation with the Japanese ambassador in a few hours.”

 

“Anything I can do, sir?”

 

“No, I think you’ve done quite enough.” It’s barely more than an exhausted whisper, and for a second she’s not certain how to interpret it. His hand finds hers on the seat between them, gives her fingers a faint squeeze in a rare moment of physical contact. “Thank you. You’ve been truly indispensable today.”

 

Edwin opens the door, and the touch is immediately withdrawn. Mycroft clears his throat, straightens his tie. He replaces his hat and lifts his head, not appearing in much of a hurry to get out. She wonders if he’s still dizzy.

 

“You’ll ring me if you need me?” She shrugs off the memory of Hemsley’s hand on her shoulder.

 

“I will see you in the morning,” he says. ”Enjoy your evening, my dear.”

 

He climbs out of the car with a stilted imbalance, speaks briefly with Edwin. The door closes. She watches through the window as he walks up the front path alone.

 

   

 

 

 

**end.**

 

 


End file.
